Patriot

CHAPTER 28

Putin and Hawke both ordered the salade niçoise, so Ambrose did the same. Putin’s new bride, Aliana, a stunning blond ballerina from Kiev, had specified Badoit water, no ice, and two aspirin, sliced, as far as he could make out. He had only a vague idea what kind of “salade” a “niçoise” might be, but he assumed that these two men of the world must have some long-standing appreciation of the menu, so why not follow suit?

When luncheon was served at last by a rather haughty and ill-mustachioed Gallic fellow, Ambrose was shocked to learn that his salad was nothing but a single large yellow-and-blue bowl containing carelessly tossed greenish leaves and the odd bit of tuna fish, parsimoniously gifted, and hard to locate among the weeds. He was obviously Putin’s guest but he’d glanced at the menu. He damn well knew he was about to tuck into a hundred quid worth of tuna fish, if only he could find it.

A delicious Domaine Ott sparkling rosé was served at table and, across that white linen expanse, Putin and Hawke got right down to cases. Eye to eye, toe to toe, and nose to nose. The four were dining in a quiet, remote corner of the small private dining room overlooking the flashing blue sea. Most of the surrounding tables were occupied by KGB bodyguards, Ambrose was sure. You could tell. Big shoulders and small heads. They all had five o’clock shadows at noon.

Still, an air of tension and secrecy pervaded the sunny, flower-filled room.

There was very clearly an agenda here, set by the Russian president, and the murder of an overweight KGB man was just as clearly not on that agenda.

“Lovely meeting you, my dear,” Congreve said, turning to the lovely Aliana with his near-perfect Muscovy Russian. He’d been a languages scholar at Cambridge long ago and it had come in extremely handy over the years, dealing as he and Hawke did with foreign agents of every hue and stripe. “I understand you’re a dancer.”

“Yes, I am. And you,” she said shyly. “Are you a dancer, too?” She was quite young and exceedingly beautiful. No surprises there.

Ambrose laughed, “No, dear, not a dancer. Although I’m frequently mistaken for one.”

She smiled and said, “You are a policeman?”

“Indeed, I am. Scotland Yard. Ever heard of it?”

She laughed. “Are you joking? My husband the president makes me read all the Sherlock Holmes books. Twice. Then he tests me. He is a stern professor. Woof! Ask me a question about The Sign of the Four.”

“One of my favorites. The second Holmes novel, actually. So what exactly was ‘the sign of the four’ as depicted in the novel?”

She gave him a lively look and said, “A secret pact among four convicts during the Indian Rebellion of 1857. Something to do with a stolen treasure? Yes? Am I correct?”

“My dear girl, you and I are going to get along splendidly,” Congreve said, heaving a huge sigh of relief. He had been agonizing all morning about what he and this young lady were going to be talking about, knowing full well Hawke would surely be sucked into Putin’s orbit and leave him to his fate.

“That was the book where Holmes gave all of us coppers some good advice on solving mysteries,” Ambrose lectured. “Holmes said, ‘In any investigation, first eliminate all extraneous factors, and the one which remains must be the truth!’ Remember that?”

“Yes, of course!” she cried. “So true!”

And they were off to the races.

Putin and Hawke had shoved their chairs back away from the table so they could look each other in the eye and communicate almost inaudibly. But they did so with visible and visceral intensity. Putin leaned in close and said, “So, Alex, you look well. No complaints?”

“Other than the fact that those bloody Tsarist bastards took another run at my son, Alexei, no, nothing really.”

Putin didn’t flinch.

“Well. He’s safe in the White House.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Hawke asked, red anger flashing in his blue eyes. “How do you know where my son is safe?”

Putin placed his index finger upon his chin, fixed his stare, and said, “My dear friend, I know the exact thread count of the Egyptian linen sheets in the Lincoln Bedroom.”

“I forgot about all that. Your state visit to the White House. The small problem with the sleeping arrangements you had so discreetly arranged. Your overnight guest, wasn’t that the issue with the Secret Service? The lady from Baltimore. A dancer, as I recall.”

“As well you should forget it. Permanently. Now, listen to me. You know I’m not one for idle chitchats. I have some information for you. But it comes at a steep price.”

“I’m listening.”

“Not money, you understand.”

“My God, I should hope not,” Hawke replied, glancing out at Putin’s bright red megayacht riding at anchor. With a rumored net worth of forty billion, it was hard to imagine Putin with his hand out.

Putin continued. “All I want from you is talk. What I need is your honest geopolitical appraisal as of right now. Today. Nothing beyond the boundaries of your Official Secrets Act, of course. I have certain questions about the disposition of different governments. And I respect your opinions, that’s all. And, moreover, I feel lucky to have access to them. That’s all I need in return for my information. A frank and honest appraisal of the strengths and weaknesses of the relevant pieces on the board.”

“Well, I suppose my degree of honesty is somewhat predicated on what you intend to offer me. What are we talking about here, Volodya?”

Putin leaned back and smiled.

“I can give you the name of the man who recently murdered the U.S. president in his bed at Walter Reed Hospital. McCloskey’s assassin. So far, CIA and FBI and all the rest have done a lousy job of finding him. I’d add MI6 to that list as well.”

Hawke didn’t blink.

“I’m listening. Tell me.”

“A Chinese national. His name is Tommy Chow. Early fifties. He was a highly prized Te-Wu assassin from the Xinbu Academy in the South China Sea. Studied directly under your late unlamented friend General Moon. Still interested?”

“Please continue.”

“We’ve chased him around a little bit. He is living now in Brazil under an assumed name. Ling Ping. He has a small casita directly on the sea. A little coastal resort town called Buzios. About two hours northeast of Rio. He works six days a week in the restaurant across the street as head chef. A trendy Italian bistro called Le Strega.”

“How old is this information?”

Putin looked at his watch.

“About an hour and a half. The chef is preparing a paella right about now. A wedding party. Tables are being set up on the beach. Torches, too.”

Hawke laughed.

“That’s good.”

“You want more, Alex?”

“Whatever you have.”

“How about his motive?”

“That would be most helpful to us, Volodya.”

“It was never any secret that General Moon wanted President McCloskey dead. There was a big Pan-Asian Conference coming up in Hong Kong, as you’ll recall. Moon had sworn to his bosses in Beijing that McCloskey would be a no-show.”

“Why?”

“They all hated McCloskey, those mandarins in Beijing. They thought he was a hard-liner. A cowboy who was quick on the draw and who’d always shoot first. They nicknamed him the ‘Duke.’ They wanted somebody more reasonable in the Oval Office. Someone more susceptible to flattery of various descriptions. Someone malleable. Moon put Tommy Chow in the White House kitchen to get rid of McCloskey and it worked.”

“They wanted Rosow?” Hawke said.

“That’s another story, but the answer is yes. The Chinese Communist Party much preferred having Rosow sitting on the Oval Office throne. Someone with a pressing domestic agenda to take his mind off international affairs. His primary goals, at least until the ISIS barbarians set fire to the Middle East once more, were sealing the U.S. borders coupled with increasing domestic oil and gas production. So. What do you think of my bargaining chip?”

“I’d say it was most impressive.”

“Do you accept my offer?” Putin said.

“I do. Thank you. I shall convey that intel brief to MI6 and CIA at the first opportunity.”

“Good. Now we can relax and talk realpolitik instead of political murder. Vastly more interesting topic.”

“Sometimes certain governments have a hard time keeping them separated.”

“Are you referring to mine? Hello Pot, meet Kettle. You of all people.”

“I didn’t say that, Volodya.”

Putin pulled out his best sly fox smile and said, “Now, now, don’t get your back up, Alex. It’s only business. Let’s get China out of the way, first, shall we? In China’s case, I would like to say that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. But in this case I cannot. Beijing is our common enemy, yes. But they are not my friends, despite what you may read in the press. Secret treaties. A clandestine alliance against the Western powers. And all that rot. Big Russian and Chinese trade and energy deals made under the table. Bullshit. All nothing but someone’s political currency to make my country look bad.”

“I’m aware of that. Sino-Russian relations always run hot and cold. But I noticed the Chinese were on the sidelines, cheering you on in adventures in Crimea and the Ukraine. Not to mention, Cuba.”

“The mandarins in Beijing and I share a common enemy, do we not? Why should they not enjoy the show we put on in what was, after all, Russian territory?”

“It’s a complicated world we live in,” Hawke said, looking away. There was something in Putin’s eyes that he hadn’t seen before. The cold blue eyes no longer looked clear and unclouded. There was a hint of something in them that Hawke couldn’t quite put his finger on. As the day wore on, he later felt he’d identified it. A touch of madness had crept in.

Putin saw his stare and smiled, saying, “Right now, Russia is going through a rough patch. Economically, I mean. Oil prices, you know. The fucking sanctions and the falling ruble. Nothing I can’t fix, you understand. But it will take time. Meanwhile, China remains globally ascendant. Political influence, raw materials and precious resources, hard cash on hand, masses of American debt, a huge spike in defense spending… I could go on and on but, frankly, it is too depressing. Just as Russia was finally getting its footing, China comes along and swipes our traction.”

“Hmm.”

“Agree with me so far?”

“For the most part, yes, I suppose so. From your point of view, of course.”

“Well, it is the only one I have, Alex, just as you have yours. It is my mission to get Russia’s traction back. And I will stop at nothing to do that. Nothing. I no longer care what they think in Paris, or Berlin. Or, London, for that matter. I’ve realized that I am a man of destiny. My legacy will be that I was my country’s savior. I want to be remembered not as another run-of-the-mill politician, but as a twenty-first-century tsar. I want my Kremlin portrait to hang beside Peter the Great. You see my point?”

“I’m beginning to, Volodya.”

“You’ve no idea how glad I am to hear you say that.”